have a very merry

Christmas!

Love, Green Girl & Team Testosterone

magi-cal christmas

In Matthew chapter 2 we can read the only account of a visit to the Christ child by magi--Wise Men from the East who were drawn across mountains and valleys by the appearance of a strange star.

I've always been fascinated by this aspect of the Christmas story--for the record, there were 3 recorded gifts, but no mention of how many wise men visited Jesus. They didn't appear at the stable with the shepherds, they showed up later on and found Jesus and Mary living in a house in Bethlehem. Bethlehem was a shabby outpost town, mostly populated by shepherds and soldiers. We don't know where the wise men came from, other than "from the East"--scholars have speculated everywhere from Persia to China and lands in between.

I got to play a Wise Man once in a Christmas play. It was one of those shadow productions where you posed behind a giant sheet with a floodlight illuminating the scene against Christmas songs sung by a choir. In this case, the song was We Three Kings of Orient Are and I knelt on a wooden platform spanning the baptismal tank, dressed in my father's bathrobe (bought expressly for use in Christmas programs) with a crown on my head and a gift box held aloft in my hands. On either side were my sidekick kings, Ben Huggins (who I secretly crushed on) and some other boy I don't recall.

Grown up now, I consider those kings--magi. Magi were learned men, wise men. Scholars from a foreign land who studied the night skies for signs and prophecies. Whatever drew them to Bethlehem was something unusual and fabulous to spur them on such a journey. They traveled 500 miles (or more) on camel, across rugged terrain and through regions full of political upheaval. They recognized the importance of that sign in the sky and followed it to the source. They agreed that the star (a comet? convergence of planets?) was an opportunity they shouldn't miss and took the journey at great personal risk and expense to see firsthand what the star meant. They didn't have anyone's confirmation--"Hey, Abdul, did you happen by Jerusalem in the past year to see this baby king? What was it like? Was it worth the trip?" No, these men were pioneer scholars, going into the unknown. They knew there was a chance they'd make the trip for nothing.

They didn't take their journey without some preparation. They read ancient texts and put together the history. They studied writings in other languages than their native tongue, pieced together prophecies fulfilled and still promised, they researched and took notes. They concluded, before their journey began, that the star in the sky pointed to the birthplace of the king of the Jews.

In Matthew 2:2 they arrive at Herod's palace in Jerusalem--near enough to where Jesus lay blowing spit bubbles and examining his fluttering hands above his face in Bethlehem. The wise men assumed (not incorrectly) that the birth of a mighty king must take place in the political and religious center of Jewish life--Jerusalem. They assumed the current leader knew something about it.

I figure the magi must have had some significance for King Herod to grant them an audience. Wealth? Reputation? Political alliance? Whatever the draw, they got to the throne room and explained their presence: "Where is the child...born to be king of the Jews? When we were in the East we saw the star. Now we have come to worship him."

They knew. Look at those words. These guys were convinced because of the star, their research, the way it all added up. This baby was important. They came from far away to worship a future king. A baby swaddled in diapers was worth their honor and reverence--and gifts.

King Herod double-checked the magis' story with his own chief priests and scholars. Yep, a Jewish king was supposed to be born sometime in Bethlehem in Judea. He secretly cut a deal with the magi. "Find the child and report back."

The magi continued another 6 miles to Bethlehem. It says in Matthew that the star went ahead of them, finally stopped above the place where the child was. "When they saw the star, they were filled with joy." I wonder if anyone else noticed the star in the sky. They must have. What did they think it meant? Was it scary? Beautiful?

Here is the moment, the culmination of their efforts. They stop their camels outside of a little house in a dusty po-dunk town. Inside this humble abode lies a great future king. The heavenly light above confirms this. They gather their gifts from leather saddle bags--or did they travel with an entourage of servants? I imagine they did. Out come treasures: gold, incense and myrrh--precious things.

At no point did the magi retrace their steps. They didn't look at the tiny house, shrug and say, "Well this was a wild goose chase. Let's get a bottle of wine before heading back home." They stepped inside through faith and saw Jesus and Mary. They bowed and worshipped and presented their gifts.

It amazes me how moved they were, these foreigners of a different faith. They never questioned Jesus's worth or value. They simply took the journey to see the fulfillment of a promise and fell to their knees in God's presence.

And, to their credit, they went immediately home, never returning to King Herod, the reigning king, who no doubt promised Good Things if they complied with his request. They didn't succumb to the temptation of a bath and feast and comfortable bed undoubtedly promised at the palace in Jerusalem. Without hesitation or debate they returned home.

I admire the magi for the leap of faith their journey took. I wonder if I'd recognize a sign from God the way they did. I heard once that we don't realize miracles these days because we aren't looking for them. The magi believed in the power of a baby in a crappy neighborhood over the power of a ruler in a palace. They believed in the unseen and unknown, took a trip through some of the (still!) most treacherous regions on the planet, and what they found filled them with joy. The Wise Men. Seeking truth. Seeking knowledge. Finding Christmas.

green girl & the iowa summer writing festival (part II)

I arrived on campus and was immediately struck by Iowa City’s similarity to Madison (my Alma mater). I felt right at home waddling up to the front desk of the dormitory I’d booked a room in. All right, everyone gave me speculative looks as I hauled my luggage through the lobby, but this was my third baby, I felt healthy and hale and ready for a final fling before becoming tied down with months of diapers and breastfeeding and midnight colic all over again.

I unpacked my maternity clothes and groceries in my dingy room and headed for the welcome banquet brimming with expectation. I selected my complimentary T-shirt (small!) and found my name tag: Green Girl in Wisconsin. I chose a spot at a round table across the grand hall and sat across from two friendly-looking middle-aged women. Peering at their nametags I breathed a prayer of gratitude. They hailed from New Hampshire. The tables filled and I studied the participants over my iced tea and small talk. No one from Iowa, only a couple other women from Wisconsin—this looked like a great start to branching out with other writers. A screenwriter from the Twin Cities sat beside me and asked which section I’d chosen. “Revising the Novel,” I announced. “Mary here from Florida’s in it too. But I haven’t met anyone else taking it yet.”

Amy, the workshop’s director, gave her welcome speech and introduced the faculty—I had every impression of professionalism. We were released to find our classrooms and meet our colleagues for the week ahead and I fell in line with the crowd, my bulging form soliciting discreet glances and full-force stares.

Maudy stood with a small gathering of women and one man in the foyer of the classroom building. There were a few nervous jokes about my condition and I realized D. was right. I’d stick out all week because of my pregnancy. My future writing partner Marni assured me that night in her New York accent (belying her name tag claiming North Carolina as her home state), “Don’t worry, I was a registered nurse for years. If you go into labor I’ll know what to do.”

After Maudy counted twelve heads she led us to our classroom with a dancer’s posture and slim grace. Wedging my belly into a desk, I peeked at my fellow writers around the room and took notes as each one described their work and writing experience—the novels and topics sounded fascinating. Women’s historical fiction, a family saga, murder mystery in the southwest, a British cozy. Feeling intimidated and foolish (and sweaty and huge), I told the group my book was “Chick Lit,” a romance novel about a girl selling kitchen products at home parties, but my working title, The Coddled Cuisine, got chuckles and I figured I had nothing to lose since I was already here.

We left with our first assignment: read the excerpts by Nina, Bill and Dwight and look at Point of View in Smilla’s Sense of Snow. Good-night, sleep tight, and I read the first book before falling asleep—frankly astounded by the quality of the pages proffered by Nina Romano.

Early morning I finished more reading before heading to the Union and the coffee room (my sole addiction—okay, besides books and chocolate and public radio). There I met up with people from the night before and enjoyed a literary chat (ah! How I miss the intellectual adult conversation I abandoned when joining the Mommy Brigade).

What fun to critique other people’s work—ask questions, suggest a different word or phrasing, point out running motifs in the text. I poured myself into writing eleven critiques throughout the week, praising what worked and flowed, gently correcting what needed help. My book wasn’t up until Friday (I know, make the pregnant woman go last! What was I thinking?) and I prayed I’d receive the same forthright and honest feedback I delivered my peers.

Throughout the week I adopted a style I’d used in grad school—to best network, sit by someone different every day. Mornings I spent in the Union with Chad and Virginia and sometimes Dwight (we joked and goofed around more than high school Sophomores with library passes). I’d stroll to the Elevenses, the daily lecture offered by faculty, and sit by Libby, perhaps Marni or Mariana. In the classroom I’d position myself by Libby one day, Pat the next, Nina and Lauren another day. Every night there were readings to attend, lectures to listen to or other fun to be had. My ice cream break, supper, evening chit-chat had streamlined to a few constants by the end of the week, however: Mariana Damon, Marni Graff, Nina Romano, and Lauren Small.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Monday afternoon we met for the first round of critiques and we adopted a system of the author simply listening as the rest provided their individual comments, then opened it up to full discussion by the group—I believe each book got an hour and a half of discussion.

We began with Nina’s—and she intimidated the hell out of me. Her book, The Wayfarer, was about the Chinese Boxer Rebellion, enveloped three narratives and blew me away with its eloquent use of metaphor and description. But I vowed to make my critique as honest and sharp as I wished my own to be, so I offered up the first actual criticism of the entire group. I watched, breathless, and Nina’s posture shifted. Was she mad? I prayed not, I hoped she was like me—wanting to hear the all of it: good, bad and ugly.

Later she shared with me her gratitude for such a harsh and exacting critique. We were peas in a pod, writing teachers at heart with a tendency to read with such attention to detail it probably irritated a lot of the others in our group.

With that first day under my enormous belly, I propped myself up on pillows that night to read Lauren’s Choke Creek and the 2 other manuscripts due the next day, including Marni’s book, The Blue Virgin (available next year!)—a British mystery, a cozy really, one of my favorite types of book to read. Marni overwhelmed me with her hospitality, inviting me to her far nicer room at the Union Hotel for a quick pee and freshen up before supper. Her affection and honest manner charmed me as much as her book. She agreed that her ending needed tweaking, still, she had an agent! Who was I to tell her what to do? I still marvel at her eagerness to perfect her craft.

Wednesday we entered the Arizona desert—Mariana Damon’s pages were descriptive and pleasantly gory. She’d drawn a world of intrigue for me: a Native American tribe, art historians, a Catholic mission placed on a reservation. Blood in the Desert was a clean read, and why not? She taught middle school English, her concern was not for grammar or spelling—it was style and setting. Lively debate ensued when Lauren questioned her depiction of an Indian tribe—the room buzzed with opinion on how to handle such sensitive topics. Mariana defended her position and asked such probing questions of the group—she had a scholar’s mind despite her flowing hippie skirts.

On Friday my colleagues returned my critique in the same honest and helpful fashion—for the most part. I had to avoid stereotyping my heroine and Nina hated her name (I did change it from “Sadie Blair” to “Sadie Davis” to soothe her!). My book came off as funny, honest, and relevant even to the male readers in the room. I was told to avoid adverbs, let Sadie be racier and spunkier, speed the pace of my narrative and add more description of setting. Everyone had a suggestion for what could happen next—and I left the room relieved and proud. They liked it! Sure, it needed some fixing, some revision, but people enjoyed reading my book—and even found it funny. What an amazing thing!

The Iowa Summer Writing Festival is truly the equivalent of summer camp for geeky grown ups--we even got a certificate for participating at the end of the week! All of it--sleeping in the grody dorms, the funny inside jokes, the cafeteria food, the camaraderie and the celebration of writing and books was an awesome experience--one I hope to repeat again someday.

And still...that's not the end of the story!

short post for the shortest day

Happy Winter Solstice, everyone!

He's wearing SHORTS. Get it?

holiday home tour '09

Tis the season to be jolly, and that jolly Jen on the Edge has devised Holiday Home Tour '09. Welcome to Chez Green Girl, friends!

Our countdown began Dec. 1st--Mr. G faithfully puts a new ornament on the tree each day--in perfect order because he is a fastidious boy when it comes to things like this.

I never met a snowman I didn't like--especially the homemade kind.

I really really like snowmen.

Really, really, really.

I like shepherds too. You can read more about them at The Women's Colony.

Our Christmas cards displayed for everyone to read.

We decorate our tree with all kinds of ornaments--the only rhyme or reason is that our favorites were made by people we love.

To the uninitiated, that would seem like a lot of tinsel. To Mr. D, that's not tinsel-y enough and he'd happily gob on another 2 boxes of the stuff. When it comes to tinsel, there seems to be no happy medium. It's more polarizing than Sarah Palin. But let's not talk politics. There's more to see!

Mr. D saw this KMart commercial where the lady and her mom decorated the house for the holidays--with a LOT of glass and swag and other fussy ribbony/shiny/breakable stuff. He wanted me to do that to our house. After I finished guffawing, I gave him this centerpiece--glass balls in a decorative bowl his sister gave me years ago. It seemed to please him enough that I could stop there with the faux greenery and glass decorations. Not that there's anything wrong with that look, it's just so breakable and we live with 3 boys who break everything.

Yes, yes we have many pinecones.

I have a box full of the kids' Christmas craft projects, collected over the years. This year I decided to display them above the French doors going into the library. A length of ribbon, two nails and many clothespins did the trick pretty well.

I hung MORE kid crafts above the playroom entrance. I'm happy to report that Team Testosterone is busy making EVEN MORE holiday art at school as I type this.

The view from up here is my favorite.

Merry Christmas!

how kevin widened the gap

Green Girl adores Christmas movies. She tears up mightily when the little deaf girl sits on Santa's lap in Miracle on 34th Street and the girls mother says, "She's deaf--she doesn't expect you to talk to her, she just wanted to see you." And then? (Excuse Green Girl while she grabs a tissue.) Santa starts talking to the girl in American Sign Language.

She adores every second of Love Actually (except the part where the slutty secretary makes a play for her beloved Alan Rickman). She sings along heartily with White Christmas (shout out to Cha Cha who gets the sheer awesomeness of this movie. Yo! Sisters!). A Christmas Story makes her quote long sections of dialogue all year long ("Fragile. Must be Italian.") Polar Express and Elf are new favorite classics and she giggles herself senseless watching National Lampooon's Christmas Vacation. Green Girl's heart expands with goodwill towards all men--except for Mr. Potter--at the end of It's a Wonderful Life. She couldn't wait to share all of these holiday classics with her sons (except Love Actually because it's not kiddie fare).

But her sons have discovered another favorite. These films have them rolling on the floor laughing fit to bust their guts. They can't get enough of these two movies and Green Girl can only sigh and shake her head because she thought Kevin and the gang would be a sad blip, not even registering on the Great Christmas Movie Traditions radar. She underestimated the power of prat falls and gags and a little boy outsmarting grown ups with gadgets. Now her sons quote things like "AAAAARRRGGGGHHHH!" and "You guys have enough yet? Or are you thirsty for more?" and "Keep the change you filthy animal." and from the sequel, "Merry Christmas you filthy animal (machine gun fire) And a Happy New Year."

Spill it, reader. What's your favorite holiday movie? What one makes you cringe and switch channels?

green girl & the iowa summer writing festival (part I)

Briane asked about this experience when I mentioned it a couple weeks ago and the telling of it actually leads into a cool ending, so here goes:

Go to any bookstore and you’ll find the section on “Writing.” You’ll find dictionaries and grammar guides, this year’s Writer’s Market, books full of writing exercises and prompts, the advice of published authors. Most of these publications assume a few things: you need topics to write about, you have no idea how to get started writing and you require the advice of a total stranger to keep you inspired and hopeful that you’ll succeed. Now, for the people I do know who write, these premises are total bullshit.

I never met somebody buying a cookbook who’d never prepared a meal before. Parenting books assume you already have a child. As a writer checking out the books on writing, I already have ideas for books, I can look up contact info for agents and publishers online and I’ve got rough drafts of projects sitting all over my house. What I need help with as a writer isn’t anything those books address. I need readers for my book and I need connections to help me break into the world of published authors.

For a while I considered an MFA program to teach me how to write. The experience would be grand, I’ve no doubt, but I can’t leave my life for two years to indulge in more academic life. I already have one graduate degree—and I’ve learned plenty about the nuts and bolts of writing through teaching it for over a decade. Yeah, my work could use some fine-tuning—I’m aware of my weaknesses with description and plot. But I don’t need to spend tens of thousands of dollars to work my way past these problem areas.

Besides, I suspect that most writing programs turn out fussy diva writers—and frankly I’ve no time for that. You’ve heard of these folk—they can only write between two-thirty and five-thirty, and only with a double mocha frappaccino in hand, and only with their favorite bathrobe swaddling their shoulders. Or the type of writers that spend so much time philosophizing about the theory and art and craft of writing that they produce little original work. Or the writers who must write and revise and spend hours and hours meddling and mussing over every phrase. Oh that I had the luxury of any such approach! All I need are a couple of hours of quiet, uninterrupted time with my laptop and I can write anywhere at any time. I believe anyone serious about telling their story can do the same. But let me tell you, it’s a bitch trying to churn out a complete thought or sentence with three kids vying for your attention and Elmo singing the alphabet song in the background.

I’m a thirty-ish housewife with three young boys living smack in the rural Midwest. My peer editors are well-intended friends who “love it, wouldn’t change a thing,” hardly useful feedback to develop my work. The people I’ve given my book to are all avid readers like me—their response is visceral and honest, but it’s not precise as to tell me where the plot lags or where the dialogue might snap better. I’ve no friends who write, so they’re easily impressed by my efforts. Too easily impressed.

For any other career the path to success is clearly laid out. When I became a teacher I completed the requirements for a college degree and a state license, sent out my resume and cover letter to schools with posted positions, and interviewed with potential employers. Scoring a job as an English teacher was simple.

Writing my first book was easy enough.

Becoming a writer, however, has been a much more difficult journey. Where do I begin, in earnest, my quest for publication? According to the books on writing, I’m to revise, revise, revise and write the perfect query and start sending my work out. Excuse me while I double over from hysterical laughter—most agents and publishers won’t look at your work without the recommendation of a current client. From whence does that network evolve when the closest thing to a “real writer” living near me is a New-Age emotive state poet laureate whose work I detest?

But the advice reads the same in all the books and articles I’ve read so I began another book, mailed query letters for my first and received a small pile of rejection postcards from publishers politely and uniformly refusing to consider reading my work.

Trolling the Internet I learned about a Wisconsin writing workshop and sent in my $75 registration fee. Obviously I had to make some writing friends and get their advice. Fresh frustration and irritation overcame me in Oshkosh when I sat at a table with people who were impressed that I’d published a single essay in on online magazine. Their idea of a successful writing life was publishing their own poetry chapbooks—about grandchildren, gardening and family genealogies. Many had never penned a word yet—but wanted to write their first novel … someday. I’d shown up at the only writing workshop in the country filled with wannabes.

Now everyone knows about the University of Iowa and their writing college—anyone who is remotely bookish has read the work churned out by their graduates and faculty. I checked out the website and behold! “Revising the Novel” offered by Maudie Benz—the description assured me this was for the novelist who had completed a first book, not the writer still thinking about getting started at writing. She expected to see a summary of the novel and twenty pages ahead of time—actual qualifications for coming to the workshop. These requirements gave me hope that the money and time necessary to get down there wouldn’t be a complete waste.

After begging my husband and my mother-in-law, I faced the final hurdle to making the trip to Iowa: my OB-Gyn. Mary (MIL) was happy to have my sons stay at her place whilst I headed an hour further south to Iowa City, my husband agreed that I needed to network and this would be a great start to my future career. But there was one little hitch. In June, during the workshop dates, I would be nearly 8 ½ months pregnant with baby number three.

Dr. C smiled tightly when I bounced the idea off of him during my monthly exam. “You’ll need to bring a copy of your records with you, just in case,” he said, his dark, long-lashed eyes on my chart (yes, I go to that doctor--everyone knows Dr. C and we all shave our legs before appointments with him. “I don’t imagine there’s any point in arguing with you, you’ll go anyway.”

“Dr. C, I’ll be perfectly safe—it’s a medical college! I’ll be closer to a hospital there than if I was at home. People will be all around me. My kids will already be in good hands. I’ll mention you on my acknowledgement page when my book gets published.” I smoothed the paper gown across my bulging belly and gave him my most confident smile.

“Please don’t do that. It wouldn’t look good.”

“Okay then, I’ll give you an autographed copy.”

He left the examination room shaking his head. Jubilant, I began preparations—finish my novel, write my summary, photocopy necessary pages. June crept closer and I had all but the final two scenes hashed out and the entire book edited to my satisfaction. Sadie Blair, my main character, was entrenched in her career as a sales rep for Coddled Cuisine, Inc. and had landed herself a sweet country veterinarian to marry after suffering a miserable affair with a bisexual. I slogged through the book assigned to the workshop participants (Smilla’s Sense of Snow). I stuffed the twelve copies of my first twenty pages in my duffel, double-checked the boys’ bags, swallowed a prenatal vitamin and strapped us all into the minivan on that sunny Saturday in June. The workshop began on Sunday, the day after settling the boys at my mother-in-law’s. I waved at them and pulled out to the gravel road, turning the minivan in the direction of Iowa City.